


The Universe Keeps Laughing

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Drugs, Endgame AU: Tony Lives, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tony Stark Is Responsible for Once In His Life, Unresolved Sexual Tension, openish ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22640791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: In which Peter is drugged and Tony is going to be a responsible adult about it, even if it kills him.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 317
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	The Universe Keeps Laughing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scioscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scioscribe/gifts).



> You asked for Peter getting drugged with something with Ecstasy-like effects, and I loved that idea too much not to write you a treat :D
> 
> Handwavey AU where Tony survived _Endgame_. Roll with it.

This isn’t the first time Tony’s felt like the universe is laughing at him. In fact, relatively speaking, this isn’t so bad: no kidnapping, no extraterrestrial existential threat. Just a college freshman blissed out on an unknown drug because he was too stupid to keep his mask on while taking down a den of crazed chemists.

Which wouldn’t be a problem if Tony wasn’t harboring feelings he shouldn’t for said college freshmen. Indulging them, even, in a plausible deniability kind of a way. He flirts with every adult with a pulse. Peter is an adult now, and last time Tony checked spider-powers don’t stop pulses, so, ipso facto, he flirts with him. And if Peter has started flirting back a little ever since Tony and Pepper went official with their split? It’s just fun between friends. No big deal.

That is, until one of those friends ends up curled on the other’s couch, running his hands along the leather and making borderline pornographic sounds.

“Seriously, Mr. Stark, you gotta come feel this,” Peter insists, nuzzling against the a cushion in a way that makes Tony jealous of a piece of furniture. “It’s amaaazing.”

“I’m good,” Tony tells him from an armchair a safe distance away. “I feel like you and the couch are having a moment, I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”

Peter stops nuzzling for long enough to stare Tony dead in the eyes. “But I always want you to interrupt.”

Okay, that is enough of that. Tony directs his eyes at the ceiling, away from the heat of Peter’s gaze. “F.R.I., how much longer is he going to be like this?”

“Based on his current rate of metabolism, at least four more hours, boss. It could be longer. The chemicals are having an unexpected interaction with his powers.”

“No shit.” It’s going to be a long night. At least it’s Saturday, so he doesn’t have to worry about getting Peter back to his uptown dorm for classes tomorrow. He just needs to survive the next few hours. “Okay, kid, how about we watch a movie?”

Peter shakes his head, lolling from shoulder to shoulder. “I don’t think I can follow a movie. Can I just look at you? I like looking at you.”

Tony grits his teeth. This is unfair. He saved the universe not that long ago, almost died and everything. Isn’t he owed a break? “How about a nature documentary? Something calming with pretty colors should do the trick. Honey, any ideas?”

“I will play a suitable video,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. confirms, at the same time Peter murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “Wish you’d call _me_ honey.”

“Watch the TV, Harold & Kumar,” Tony says as the lights dim and a documentary about the coral reef flickers on. “You’ll love it, trust me.”

***

Fortunately, Tony’s many years of dealing with drug addled idiots (okay, his many years of _being_ a drug addled idiot, mostly) haven’t led him astray. Peter is absorbed by the documentary, which allows Tony to mess around with R&D on his tablet for distraction. The plan works so well, he almost misses it when Peter slides to the floor and sprawls out on the thick carpet.

“Doing alright there, Pineapple Express?”

Peter nods, scooting closer to Tony, which is decidedly not the idea. “Yeah. The couch was too soft. This is better.”

“Alright, can’t argue with that.”

Tony goes back to his tablet. Peter goes back to the documentary. It’s fine, up until Peter’s hand suddenly latches around Tony’s ankle.

“Um,” he says.

Peter beams up at him. “I was dizzy.”

“You were dizzy,” Tony repeats. “You’re lying on the ground.”

“Still dizzy.”

“And you’re holding onto my ankle because…?”

“It makes me feel grounded.”

“Fine.” That’s some serious drug logic, but Peter has been seriously drugged. If holding onto Tony’s ankle makes him feel better, Tony can be an adult and ignore the warmth that radiates up his leg, toward areas he is not going to think about.

“Thanks.” Peter toys with the hem of Tony’s pants, fingers sneaking under, brushing against the skin above his sock, which he suddenly wishes wasn’t rolled down quite so low. “You always make me feel grounded, Mr. Stark.”

“I do my best.” His best, currently, is breathing deeply and trying to keep his heart rate under control. The last thing he needs is Peter and his super senses picking up on exactly how much his touch affects him. “Hey, Cheech, look at the jellyfish. Woo. Colors. Pretty.”

It is pretty, which is enough to distract Peter from the conversation, but not enough to get him to let go.

Yeah, the universe is definitely laughing at Tony.

***

Two hours later the documentary is over, Peter’s hand has slid fully inside Tony’s pant leg, palm pressing against his calf, and Tony wants to die.

Fortunately, it’s already 10 p.m.—way before either of their bedtimes, but it’s at least _a_ bedtime. Reasonable people go to bed at this time.

“Okay,” he says, gently moving his leg away. “F.R.I., how’s he doing?”

“I am here, you know,” Peter says from the floor. “You can ask me.”

“Okay, how are you doing, Pete?”

Peter scrunches his face, working his bottom lip between his teeth, biting so hard it looks painful. But there’s no way to stop him without talking about his mouth, or even worse _touching_ his mouth, and Tony’s not going there. Finally, he replies, “I feel like I’m floating.”

“Great, still high. F.R.I.?”

“The toxicity level of Peter’s blood is falling steadily, but based on current projections, it will still be several hours until it has cleared.”

“Is he going to die if he goes to bed now?”

“That seems highly improbable.”

Good enough. Tony extends a hand. Peter takes it, but rather than let himself be pulled to his feet, he yanks down; surprised and unprepared for his strength, Tony stumbles, landing practically on top of him, faces inches apart. In retrospect, he should’ve seen that coming.

“I don’t want to go to bed,” Peter says, voice dipped low. “I want—”

He leans forward.

Going for the kiss, or just off balance? Tony’s not going to wait around to find out. He leaps back to his feet with speed that impresses himself, knees groaning in protest. It’s been a long time since the floor was a fun place for him to hang out.

Peter pouts at him from the ground. Genuinely pouts, lip stuck out, batting his eyes. Tony wonders what godforsaken piece of media stuck that in his subconscious. He’s not even going to get into the effect the image has on his _own_ subconscious, thank you. The helpless flirty thing has never done it for him, and he’s not about to let it start just because it’s Peter.

“Let’s try this again,” he says, more firmly this time. “I’m going to bed. Either you let me take you to your room and tuck you in first, or I can leave you here. No skin off my back either way.”

“Or I can come to your room?” A twinge runs up Tony’s left arm. Before he can even come up with a reply, Peter jumps to his feet. “I take that back. I’m sorry I’m stressing you out.”

“I didn’t say—”

Peter glances at Tony’s left wrist, which he belatedly realizes he’s clutching in his right hand. Ah. “You noticed that?” he asks, before realizing that is maybe not a question he wants an answer to.

“I always notice,” Peter says very quietly. “I notice everything about you.”

Yep. Did not want that answer. That answer makes him want to do things he really shouldn’t, or maybe cry. Instead of either, he sighs. “Can you make it to bed okay, kid?”

“I thought you were going to tuck me in.”

“Not so sure if that’s a good idea.”

Peter contemplates that, rubbing his arms, the subconscious movement of someone who is still experiencing unexpected sensory input.

“Okay,” he finally agrees. “I’m sorry.”

Tony’s momentary relief is rudely interrupted by Peter bounding across the room and throwing his arms around him, holding so tight his ribs hurt.

“Thank you for taking care of me.” His voice is soft, lips hovering above Tony’s collarbone. It’s torture. “You always take care of me. You’re really great, Mr. Stark.”

How exactly is he supposed to resist that? There’s a limit to his willpower; he allows himself the indulgence of wrapping his arms around Peter in return, fingers teasing at the curls along the back of his neck. “You’re great too, Pete. Now, can you go to bed?”

Peter nods, which makes his lips actually graze Tony’s skin, stealing his breath, almost his ability to think.

Fuck. This needs to stop. He grips Peter’s shoulders, gently pushing him away.

Peter blinks back at him, unfocused. “Why do you never call me Peter, Mr. Stark?”

That’s a swerve. “I don’t know,” he replies, which is true. “I don’t call anyone by their real name. Why do you always call me Mr. Stark?”

Peter’s eyes fall to Tony’s lips, then back to his face. “I call you Tony in my head, sometimes,” he murmurs. “When I…sometimes. Do you do that? With my name?”

Yes, yes he does. And no, no he is not saying that. This conversation is what he gets for letting himself be sidetracked. He drops his hands. “Bedtime,” he declares. “ _Now_.”

Then, before either of them can say something even stupider, he spins on his heels and practically runs to his room.

***

The next morning, Peter sleeps in late enough that Tony has time to pull together something resembling a breakfast. Well, something resembling a stack of pancakes, anyway. Pepper would tell him he should have fruit to balance it out, but he suspects Peter won’t mind. He also places several large glasses of water out on the kitchen island, on the logic that anything that gets you as fucked up as Peter was last night is likely to leave you dehydrated in the morning.

When Peter finally stumbles into the kitchen, he looks adorably grumpy, hair a mess, eyes red. He’s drowning in the accidently-two-sizes-too-large Spider-Man themed pajama bottoms and t-shirt Tony stuck in the guest room dresser a few months ago, partially as a joke, partially as a practical acknowledgement of the number of times Peter crashes here instead of his dorm—after late lab sessions and movie nights, or the rare times he swings by for a first aid patch-up, or when he just plain wants a more comfortable bed.

Huh. That actually happens a lot, now that Tony thinks about it. Maybe he should encourage Peter to stay over less, after last night. No, correction: he _definitely_ should.

Also definitely: he’s not going to.

Peter makes a beeline for the water, downing two glasses before turning to face him. He looks exhausted, the red around his eyes blending into deep purple under them.

“Rough night, huh?” Tony offers, light, sliding a plate with three pancakes on it across the island. “I’m still not exactly sure what hit you, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say eating will probably make you feel better.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, with none of his usual enthusiasm. But he does dig in, devouring the first pancake in a few giant, undignified mouthfuls. “This is good. Did you make them? You never cook.”

Tony puts a hand to his heart, mock offended. “I cook!”

“Name one time,” Peter shoots back, cutting into the second pancake.

“Um…I made you that soup when you were sick.”

“Soup out of a can doesn’t count.” Peter adds an indulgent smile, the one he always gets when he’s teasing Tony but doesn’t really mean it, and for a brief, glorious moment, Tony thinks everything is back to normal. But then Peter seems to catch himself, smile faltering, eyes falling to his plate. He clears his throat but doesn’t add anything.

They stew in awkward silence, Peter poking at his final pancake, Tony buzzing with anxiety. This is not good. The last thing he needs is for last night to make things strained between them. The universe is allowed to laugh at him, but it’s not allowed to take away any of the few truly, unreservedly good things he has left in his life, and having Peter around is a truly, unreservedly good thing. One of the very best, even if it sometimes is torture, too.

“You need anything else?” he tries. “More pancakes? More water? Uh…I think I have a frozen pizza somewhere.”

Peter shakes his head, taking another gulp of water before replying, “No, I’m good. Thank you, Mr. Stark. For…everything. Once I’m done eating, I can go.”

Tony’s stomach sinks. There’s no way Peter crawling home to sulk alone, forlorn and hungover, ends well.

“I thought we had lab time on the books today,” he protests. It’s not even a lie; they did make lab plans a few days ago, for Peter to work on a class project. “You really going to ditch me?”

Peter’s head snaps up, expression surprised. “Wait, really? You don’t want me to go?”

“Of course not.” Tony circles to Peter’s side, and then, because apparently the universe didn’t manage to teach him anything last night, he grabs his shoulder, squeezing tight, relishing the heat of his skin through the cotton of his shirt. “Lab’s way more fun with you around.”

“I—okay. Yeah, awesome.” Peter is lighting up, unfolding, leaning into Tony’s touch. “I thought you wouldn’t want…I don’t really remember last night very well, but I got the impression that I was kind of, um, annoying?”

He says _annoying_ with a lilt, as if he’s not sure it’s the right word. He means way more than annoying.

“You were involuntarily drugged. I won’t hold it against you.” Tony gives his shoulder another squeeze before ruffling his hair and pulling his hand away. “But we do need to have a talk about you wearing your mask.”

“Don’t worry,” Peter says, grabbing his plate and heading to the sink. “I won’t be making that mistake again.”

***

They spend the day in the lab, working together as well as always: brainstorming, creating, teasing the bots. Back to normal, as if the whole night never happened. Peter seems relieved, grateful; he keeps flashing Tony these little smiles, like he can’t believe it. By the end of the day he’s laughing as he packs his things, delighted with his progress on his project, already making plans to come back later that week to finish up. He gives Tony a wave as he heads to the door, backpack slung over his shoulder.

That’s it. Fixed. All good. Tony vs. universe: Tony wins. Disaster averted, temptation resisted. For once, he played all his cards right.

Which means he has no one to blame but himself when he suddenly says, “Hey, Peter, wait.”

Peter freezes, turning slowly. His voice squeaks as he asks, “Yeah?”

Tony wonders if he remembers their conversation from last night, or if it’s simply the shock of hearing his name that makes his eyes go wide. He feels a little shocked himself, from saying it, but that doesn’t prevent his mouth from continuing to run out ahead of his brain. “I was just thinking, it’s about time you start calling me Tony. Agreed?”

Peter’s hand tightens on his backpack strap, eyes somehow going even wider. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Agreed?”

“It’s just a name, kid. Relax.”

Based on the way his brows raise, skeptical, Peter doesn’t buy that. He bounces on his toes a few times, bursts out, “Well, uh, thanks again, Tony,” then spins and slips out the door in a dash. He doesn’t quite manage to hide his grin as he goes.

Tony glances around the empty room, suddenly at a loss. He can feel F.R.I.D.A.Y. judging him in her silence. (Okay, maybe he’s projecting.)

“I have no idea why I did that,” he announces. 

Lie: he knows. It was the ghost of Peter’s fingers on his ankle, lips on his collarbone. The echo: _I always notice_.

“It’s just a name,” he adds, even though no one is arguing with him. “No big deal.”

That’s a lie, too. 

Somewhere in the distance, he can almost hear the universe laughing again. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is highly appreciated <3
> 
> Re-dated because it was anon for an exchange and now revealed. Sorry if you’ve seen it already!


End file.
